I love my son, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me; I wouldn’t change him for the world. Happiness radiates from his little goofy smile from the moment he wakes, around 6 am, until lights out at seven. As babies go he’s easy, of course, he’s interested in everything (other than any toy we’ve ever bought him), he rapidly moves from one sharp ended part of the kitchen to the next picking up any unswept morsel of food along the way and popping it straight into his mouth. But, unlike some other babies, he does it all with a smile on his face so he’s easy; right?
Well, I’m not finding it easy. Actually, if I’m honest, I’m finding it really fucking hard. Not the general logistics of it all; keeping a 9 month year old alive is pretty easy. Changing endless nappies, whizzing up balanced meal after balanced meal, singing songs and generally placating, none of these tasks are difficult but the unrelenting nature of it, the monotony, an endurance test that never lets up, that part is crushing my spirit. I feel flat, broken and, dare I say it, bored?
Please don’t get me wrong, no part of me blames my son for this. I love him more than I’ve ever loved another living creature. Even when I feel like a black cloud is hanging over my head, following me from room to room, day to day, his little smile never fails to make my heart do a little flip.
Yet alongside the pride and joy, I feel so totally lost, exhausted and alone. I feel like someone put my brain in a blender like I’m incapable of retaining even the smallest piece of information, and I feel like everyone is watching, judging. I want, no need, some help but if I ask I’ve failed, and how can I ever come back from that?